


The Things We Mourn

by springsdandelion (writergirlie)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Mellark children, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:24:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/springsdandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta's and Katniss's son reflects on his parents' experience and what they've taught him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Mourn

The first time I asked my father about his leg, I’d been only a boy of four. Too young to know any better, too young to think before speaking, too young to notice the way my father had lowered his gaze before he answered, “There was an accident when I was younger.”

 

We’d been out swimming by the lake on an unseasonably warm spring day, splashing around in the water and trying to capture tadpoles that would squirm away from us at the last second, when my father had pulled up to the shore to set out the food we’d brought for an impromptu picnic. The sight of metal and plastic where flesh was on my own leg caught my eye at once, and I remember tilting my head, squinting my eyes to look at it, as the sunlight glinted in the smooth surface of the prosthetic. And before I could censor myself, the question just came out, as casually as if I’d asked why thunder came after lightning, or why rain turned into snow when it was cold.

 

My sister, of course, was older and wiser about these things. When I’d pressed on, asking my father about how it happened and how old he’d been and whether it had hurt, she merely grabbed my hand and tried to distract me by pointing out a toad that had leapt out onto a nearby lily pad. But I didn’t understand why she was changing the subject, and besides, who cared about a silly old toad?

 

“Don’t you remember Effie telling us it’s rude to put people on the spot?” she said.

 

“What’s that mean? Put people on the spot?”

 

“Come here, little goose,” my mother said, swimming over to where I was and drawing me into her. “Someday, we’ll tell you the whole story. But right now, it’s time to eat, ok?”

 

When I was a teenager, the question came with more weight, more depth behind it. We’d learned all about the Hunger Games in school, had even read about the integral role my parents had played in them. It had been like reading characters in a book, though, as if I’d been learning about different people altogether, rather than Peeta and Katniss Mellark, the people I’d known my entire life, who had sung to me in the middle of the night when I had woken up from a bad dream, given me sleep syrup when I had broken my arm, stroked my forehead until I’d fallen asleep whenever I had a fever.

 

“Dad, do ever get used to it? Do you ever look down and forget that it’s there?”

 

My father smiled, the dough left forgotten momentarily, as his hands stilled their kneading motion.

 

“Every single time,” he said softly. “Every single time, I look down and I’m still surprised to see it.” He paused, looking out of the window, at nothing in particular. In the distance, there were birds singing, and he closed his eyes, as if to listen to their melody. Then he said, “Do you know I still feel it sometimes? My leg, I mean. Sometimes I swear I can feel it aching.” He let out a small laugh, then went back to his kneading. “Strange, isn’t it?”

 

When I’m much older, and bring my firstborn to meet my parents for the first time, I notice my father is now using a cane. He has a pronounced limp now, the stride in his good leg markedly shorter. Weaker. When he takes his new granddaughter in his arms, he brings her over to the rocker and sits down with her, holding her close to his chest as he pushes back and forth gently with his prosthetic.  

 

“Dad?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Does it ever get easier? Learning to let it go? All of it?”

 

My father is silent for a long time before he answers, looking up to meet my mother’s gaze. She crosses the room to where he’s sitting and extends her hand towards him, and he takes it, bringing it to his lips, then looks down once again at this little baby he’s cradling.

 

“I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to let it go completely,” he says. “There will always be things we mourn. But instead of letting go, we can hold on to what’s most precious. That’s how we get through it.”

 

Life marches on. My parents taught me that. We learn to pick up the pieces and we do our best to put them back together, and we find hope wherever it presents itself. We mourn our losses and we cherish our victories.

 

And we always, always look ahead. Peeta and Katniss Mellark know this better than anyone.


End file.
